gradually downward
by Lupin
Summary: Ken learns that this is the way things go. Timeline from preKapitel to Gluhen.


_Author's Note: Written to 747, a brilliant song by Swedish band Kent. Titles of the different sections are lyric-quotes from said song. Timeline shouldn't be too hard to work out, but just in case: pre-main series, main series episode three, post-OAV, post-Dramatic-Precious, and more-or-less Gluhen._

**gradually downward**

_I. tomorrow we could teach them some new styles_

It's been a few days since their first mission, and Ken is still unimpressed. Neither a flowershop nor the silence of blood-soaked nights is a good setting in which to build rapport, and though the blond kid has made some attempts at being friendly - unlike the infuriatingly cold redhead, who doesn't even want to have lunch with the others - he also spends the rest of the time telling them off for one thing or another.

Better that than the behaviour of the _other_ blond, though. Ken resents the constant staleness of cigarette smoke in the air only slightly less than he resents Youji's attitude. He's surprised they haven't exchanged blows yet, considering his own volatile temper and Youji's fondness for baiting all of them, but figures it's really just a matter of time until it comes down to violence.

"Oi, Ken!" The usually lazy tones are nowhere to be heard. "We have _customers_, you know. _Waiting_ customers, even."

And if this keeps up, said violence may occur within the afternoon. Not bothering to dignify Youji's call with an answer, Ken struggles a bit more with the ribbon before chucking the finished bouquet unceremoniously into the hands of a visibly annoyed Youji.

Youji returns silence with silence, turning back to the counter with a forced grin as he smoothes the ruffled flowers, handing them over. Ken turns away, hearing the smoothed-over voice give the standard thank-you, and reconfirms that flowershop duty is not something he enjoys.

* * *

Later both the summer air and the atmosphere in the shop have cooled down, as Youji pulls the metal shutters across the shopfront. The rattling clank-clank-clank is already becoming familiar to Ken. He supposes that probably counts for something, though he can't be bothered to wonder exactly what that would be.

Distractedly shoving rolls of ribbon and tape into the drawer by the till, he doesn't notice Youji until the taller man hands a pair of scissors over the counter. Ken looks up instinctively, and meets a casually indifferent gaze.

"I'm going off for dinner, so if the kid asks or anything, you can tell him." Youji's almost trying to be civil, which catches Ken off-guard. He nods absently, taking the scissors and tossing it into the haphazardly stuffed drawer, looking back down as he tries to close it properly. Youji turns to leave, but the footsteps pause somewhere near the back door.

"Oh, and Ken?" The laughter in his words is unmistakable, and Ken doesn't have to look up again to know exactly what that smirk looks like. "Be a little nicer to the customers, you know? They'd probably like you if you smiled more."

At that point Ken does look up, sharply. Youji's smirk is just as expected, and Ken scowls a little in response, despite knowing how childish it is. The blond turns away, opening the door; there's a barely noticeable pause before he adds: "I'll buy back your share, yeah? I hope you like yakisoba."

The door closes even before the cool night air can enter, and Youji's gone. Ken's still scowling a little, but inexplicably it softens into a grudging grin, as he finally shoves the uncooperative drawer shut and starts counting out the till. And breathes in the scent of leftover spring, and thinks that perhaps he could learn to live with flowershop duty.

* * *

_II. so this is all we need_

The ride back is silent. It isn't always, but tonight demands a new sort of gravity, a carefully-weighted absence of words pretending to be normal. Youji took his own car back, of course, which makes things only slightly easier for the three of them in Aya's Porsche. Ken looks out of the window at the streetlight-lit road and the few passersby, and wonders if they'll reach the Koneko before their absent teammate.

As always, Omi is the first to break the silence. "Youji-kun will be fine, won't he?" The question seeks confirmation rather than actually believing there is an alternative; Youji's always fine, after a while. The three of them still remember Sayaka, and how Youji's spirits had recovered well before his leg had. Privately, Ken wonders if Youji's propensity to receive bullet wounds is going to continue. He's about to say something throwaway to that effect, but surprisingly enough it is Aya who speaks first.

"Just leave him alone for a while," comes the clipped reply, and the pale lavender gaze never leaves the road. Ken makes a vague sound of assent. Typical Aya, the ever-logical, cold-as-ice bastard who is infuriatingly efficient and almost always right. But Aya wasn't the one to help Youji out of the burning workshop that night just months ago, wasn't the one to hear Youji's choked sobs up close. It's easy for him to believe that leaving people alone solves everything.

Still, Ken knows he'll probably leave Youji alone anyway, and not just because Aya had said to do so. He's beginning to learn that that's the way things work.

* * *

The knocking is tentative yet still able to convey a certain impatience; eventually Ken gives up and talks at Youji's door instead, voice raised just enough to be audible. The casualness in his voice is there only because he isn't sure what else he could possibly put in its place.

"Hey, Youji. Omi wants me to make sure you haven't gone and reopened the bullet wound, because Aya won't be amused if he has to stitch you up again, and the sheets are a bitch to clean if you're going to bleed on them for the rest of the night. Are you listening to me? Youji--"

The door opens abruptly. Youji looks tired and not very amused, but he's out of his mission wear and his eyes are dry. Good show. Ken, feeling a little silly now that he's got a response, finds his tone wavering.

"Right. Um. You're not bleeding to death, then. Good."

The same unimpressed stare, and Youji's closing his door again. Impulsively Ken grabs hold of the side of the door, speaks to the half-turned head.

"We, you know...just wanted to make sure you were okay." And, immediately self-conscious, starts to leave - but then he's startled by the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder, and turns around. Youji's eyes are still hidden behind dark glasses, but at least they're looking straight at Ken now.

"Ken." There's a brief pause, as though Youji's debating how much this conversation is ruining his reputation but already knows the conclusion that he'll reach. "Don't ever change, okay?"

Another pause that's long enough for Ken to stare at Youji in surprise, before things take a more usual turn: "I guess the world needs its share of idiotic, hot-headed soccer players anyway." The teasing smile betrays a sincerity that the older man would be hard-pressed to admit, a realness that's often lost in the lazy laughter of those eyes. Ken makes a sound of not quite mock-annoyance, but even as Youji's door clicks decisively shut and Ken returns to the quiet sanctuary of his own room, the night's darkness feels a little less absolute.

* * *

_III. sometimes it's impossible to breathe_

Living in close quarters has a way of lacing any friendship with irritable anger. There's no privacy within the walls of the trailer, no doors to escape behind, so they all compensate for that by never really being there once their shift is over. Youji often isn't there at night, either. They all have their own escapes, after all.

It's easy to chalk up this new uneasiness to that one fresh winter's night a month or so ago; easiest of all for Ken. He still remembers, but it's blurred by the shades of nightmares, now, and sometimes he's no longer sure if the choked words that echo in his head are memory or imagination. So it's hard to laugh when Omi tells Youji off for missing his shift, or Aya makes a rare joke, because it's all too easy to recall the same pair of eyes dark with desperation or an unreadable coldness.

Still, in the daytime the nightmares are quieted, as they have always been. Ken's never been too fond of flowers, but as choking as the springtime scent can be, at least it's a distraction.

* * *

One night, Ken comes home late from a midnight bike ride to find Youji sitting on one end of the couch, posture oddly tense. It doesn't seem Ken's place to say anything, but still he tries: "Youji?" The question is neutral enough, neither annoyed nor especially concerned. When the blond turns, his green eyes are far too sober, though it's still clear that he's been drinking.

"Lemme tell you something, Ken - you should never get involved with women. They're nothing but trouble." It ends with a weak laugh, and his grin seems more out of habit than anything else.

In some other tone, half a lifetime ago, it would just have been a joking, vaguely condescending piece of unsolicited advice. Tonight the tone is all wrong, and so is the look in Youji's eyes. And while some other yesterday, there might have been an awkward, poorly-disguised offer of comfort, tonight Ken can't find it in himself to say anything in response. He stares, instead, and now that their gazes have met Youji seems reluctant to look away. His eyes ask questions Ken has never had the answer to.

"I don't know...where we're going. Know what I mean?"

Youji's eyes are oddly bright, a tell-tale wetness shimmering in them. Beneath Ken's shock and instinctive worry, a disquieting anger grows and borders on disgust. He finds his hands trembling, just lightly, finds his breath begin to quicken, and has to leave.

The highway is comforting in its lack of direction, as Ken speeds blindly across the asphalt and surrenders to the anonymity of the night, and doesn't let his thoughts go back to Youji.

* * *

_IV. maybe tomorrow it won't heal_

Metal through flesh, the faint grinding against bone as it slips past the ribs, and then the soft yielding beneath. For a while there is nothing in Youji's eyes except the blank paralysis of pain; then something blurs, the older man tries to grin but even that gesture goes wrong - he coughs weakly instead, a wet and sickening sound. The blood doesn't reach Ken.

Ken hasn't moved. A hitching attempt at a gasp, and then the emptiness in those eyes is of death rather than pain, and Youji - and the body slumps heavily against Ken's hand. He pulls away hurriedly, finally. The blades come out with difficulty, clumsy with blood.

The body - Youji doesn't even touch him as he falls.

When Ken finally wakes up, he's not even trembling.

* * *

By now the bandages are even less than a mild inconvenience for Ken, but it's still strange to see the pale whiteness between the end of Youji's crop-top and the waistband of his jeans. He doesn't know how the older man can stand to wear those clothes - they were always restraining, but with the injuries they are even more trouble. It's not Ken's concern, at any rate, and maybe familiarity is comforting, especially in times of true unfamiliarity. Though, somehow, there is no longer anything unfamiliar about the way they ignore each other, or the quiet that marks the time.

Youji goes over to the fridge, takes out one of the few remaining cans of beer. By now the silence is too usual to be hated. Ken toys with the idea of mentioning his dream, just to see if Youji would react, but figures it wouldn't be worth the time. He stares in the vague direction of the computer, instead, and wonders if he should visit Aya later. It's not like they talk there either, but at least that would be expected - Aya is still Aya, after all. While this - some part of him insists that this used to be different, that something has changed --

The rest of him is unimpressed by that line of thought. His right hand curls and uncurls absently against his knee; it's only when he senses Youji's gaze - not quite questioning - that he pauses, and wills it to stop.

The mornings all pass like this, wasted sunlight and the hours falling dead. Sometimes Ken thinks this is hell of a sort, too.

* * *

_V. a violent whisper_

Ken doesn't know how it happens. Blame Youji's deliberately careless tongue or his own temper, but before the blond can finish his next sentence, Ken's knuckles are shoved against his throat. T-shirt collar crumpled in an angry fist, pinned to the wall, Youji breaks off. The crooked grin twists a little further into bitterness, green eyes closing briefly in some sort of surrender.

"How the fuck did we all end up like this?" It's not a real question. That's just as well; Ken doesn't have the answer.

"Shut up," he growls instead. Youji starts laughing. He doesn't stop even after Ken punches him squarely in the gut, doesn't stop despite Ken's efforts to make him do so; doesn't stop even when he's eventually lying half-curled on the floor, coughing faintly. There's a thin trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. It irritates Ken. Youji isn't supposed to be like this. ( And still _laughing_. )

The seconds tick away. Ken's heartbeat is nowhere near in sync. Neither is Youji's breathing, once his laughter has faded off; the ragged gasps are almost painfully loud, as though each one is drawn through clenched teeth. It annoys Ken. He wishes it'd stop.

He doesn't know how long he's been standing there before Youji speaks again.

"...how did - how did you end up like this?" The voice is softer now, slightly broken, almost sad.

The choked sound Youji makes as Ken leaves, just before the door slams behind him, could be another stifled gasp of pain or a desperate laugh. Ken doesn't bother finding out.

* * *

Ken doesn't want to think about that question, but it keeps coming back to him - maybe it's always been there. Yesterday he looked at Sena and recalled - always too clearly - a different pair of blue eyes; tomorrow he will look at Aya and find that he can't remember the last time he saw a hint of softness, or a smile. Still, the flowershop is never open, and he is grateful for at least that much. The scent of flowers or grass would be too cruel. The only accent in the air now is of stale cigarette smoke, and the hint of blood that - imaginary or not - never really goes away.

In Koua Academy, even the football field feels wrong beneath his shoes. Today he plays the game and feels nothing. Today he looks at Youji's smile and finds that he can still recall a once-there brightness; and that is worse, somehow, than forgetting.


End file.
